True connection doesn’t come from being good.
The night I realized I was a monster, I was ladling soup into disposable bowls at a homeless shelter, wearing a volunteer badge that screamed “savior.”
“God bless you,” I said, my voice detached, mechanical. The man across from me, his hands trembling as he held the bowl, noticed the faint track marks peeking out from under my sleeve. His sunken eyes lingered there before meeting mine.
“You’re one of us,” he said softly.
Shame flushed through me. I pulled my sleeve down, plastering on the practiced smile of someone trying too hard to seem kind. “More soup?” I asked, desperate to maintain the illusion.
He shook his head, his voice steady and firm. “Stop pretending. It’s cruel.”
The word hit me like a blow. Cruel. He wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t serving soup to help others; I was doing it to prove to myself — and everyone else — that I wasn’t like them. That I was still a “good person.” My kindness wasn’t kindness at all — it was armor, a way to separate myself from the darkness I carried inside.
The Costume of Kindness
Not long before that moment, my life was a symphony of selfless acts. I was the dependable volunteer, the one who always showed up for charity drives and community events. I wore the costume of goodness like a second skin.
But it wasn’t sustainable. The weight of maintaining that image crushed me long before drugs did. When everything finally fell apart, I landed on the streets.
Even then, I clung to the facade. I picked up trash around my sleeping spot, thanked people graciously for spare change, and tried to be the “polite junkie.” It was exhausting. Worse, it felt hollow — a performance devoid of meaning.
I remember watching a woman overdose behind a dumpster one night. While others rushed to help, I stood frozen, paralyzed by the fear of legal liability, of breaking the rules of my “good person” narrative. By the time I acted, precious moments had passed.
That’s the trap of being good — it ties you up in endless calculations of right and wrong while real people suffer right in front of you.
The Liberation of Disgrace
My moment of clarity didn’t come in a church or a rehab center. It happened in a Walmart parking lot at 3 a.m., as I rummaged through a trash can for food.
A family walked by, their children clinging to their mother as their father shielded them from me. I saw myself reflected in their fear — not as the “good” person I used to pretend to be, but as a human being laid bare in all my desperation.
For the first time, I didn’t feel the need to justify myself. I didn’t try to explain that I had once been somebody, that I had fallen from some moral high ground. I simply existed, messy and broken, in the truth of that moment.
It was the most honest I’d been in years.
The Unexpected Teachers
It wasn’t the so-called “good people” who taught me the most about humanity. It was those society labeled as lost causes.
There was Marcus, a schizophrenic who shared his medication with others experiencing breakdowns, even though it meant enduring his own episodes unmedicated. “Sometimes helping hurts,” he told me. “That’s how you know it’s real.”
Sarah, a sex worker, kept a list of dangerous clients to protect others, even though it put her at risk. When I asked why she did it, she shrugged. “Being human means we’re all connected. You pull one thread, and everyone feels it.”
Even Neil, my old dealer, showed me a kind of kindness I didn’t expect. When I showed up broke and desperate, he didn’t sell to me. Instead, he drove me to a detox center and waited six hours to make sure they took me. I asked why he’d done it. “Sometimes kindness looks like cruelty,” he said.
Beyond Good and Evil
Today, my life is different. I have a job, a home, and a semblance of stability. I could probably pass for “good” again if I wanted to. But I don’t.
Last week, I went back to that same shelter where I once served soup — not as a client, but not as a savior either. I was there to fix their database system.
While working, I noticed a new resident — a man wearing an expensive watch, clearly out of place, still in shock from whatever had brought him there. He straightened chairs, picked up trash, and carried himself with the same desperate need I once had to prove he didn’t belong.
After finishing my work, I sat next to him. I didn’t offer advice or platitudes. I just sat, two human beings in a space stripped of pretense.
Eventually, he spoke. “I used to be — ”
“I know,” I interrupted. “Me too. But we’re something better now.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Real.”
The Truth About Humanity
Being human means embracing the darkness alongside the light. It means accepting that kindness and cruelty, selfishness and generosity, all coexist within us. True connection doesn’t come from being good — it comes from being honest.
I’m not a good person anymore. I’m something far more valuable: a real one. And in that messy, complicated truth, I’ve found a peace that goodness never gave me.